Grunkle Stan and Justice
by William Easley
Summary: For reasons of his own, in mid-June of 2017, Grunkle Stan takes a hand in local government. Short one-shot that may have later repercussions.


_I do not own the show GRAVITY FALLS or any of the characters; both are the property of the Walt Disney Company and of Alex Hirsch. I make no money from these stories but write just for fun and in the hope that other fans enjoy reading them. I will ask, please, do not copy my stories elsewhere on the Internet. I work hard on these, and they mean a lot to me. Thank you._

* * *

**Grunkle Stan and Justice**

* * *

**(June 15-16, 2017)**

It started during the birthday party for Stan and Ford at the Shack on Thursday. Stan was taking alternate shifts with Dipper at being Mr. Mystery, while Soos remained in the Shack to look after both sales and the party—"That's gonna be difficult with a one-track mind," Stan had told Soos, who took it as a compliment.

Anyway, at the beginning of one of his breaks, around noon, just before the big picnic lunch on the lawn, Stan had been mingling with the guests, who seemed to be having a great time, and now and then homing in on a reluctant tourist who hesitated about purchasing some overpriced (though on sale as part of Founders' Day) merch to push him or her over the edge and into the purchase pool. He always succeeded.

But then he ran into Tyler Cutebiker, dressed casually as always in a tee shirt (GRAVITY FALLS! EVERYBODY WECLOME!—it was a factory second—with a view of the entrance to the Valley and the new, well, fairly new sign where the railroad bridge had been. The one with the corrected spelling of "Welcome") and cut-off shorts, though his trucker's cap had been embroidered with the word "MAYOR."

"Hey, Mr. Mayor!" Stan said, shaking Tyler's much smaller hand—to Stan it was like congratulating an exhausted goldfish. "Listen, I have a proposition for you. Got a minute?"

"I always have a minute for a constituent!" Tyler said brightly.

"Then come to the office."

The office, which Soos used nowadays, remained almost exactly the way Stan had left it when he stepped down back in 2012 as the full-time Mr. Mystery, surrendering the position to Soos. Though he and Ford still owned the Shack—they rented it to Soos for a dollar a year—Stan felt at home in the office. He waved Tyler into the visitor's chair and he settled in behind the desk. "So how's it hangin', Tyler? Government runnin' smooth?"

"Well, you know, it keeps me busy!" Tyler said. "The Sheriff's Department and I are going over all the old traffic regulations. We're thinking of putting it up to a vote to the Council—we want to streamline things, you know. Eliminate some of the old-timey traffic ordinances and such that the city founder put into place, and some other outdated laws, too. For example, we don't think it's necessary any longer for a motorist to stop at every intersection and fire off a skyrocket before driving through."

"Who does that?" Stan asked.

"Nobody! But technically they're breaking the law. Everybody who fails to fire off a rocket at a crossroads is supposed to be fined five gallon jugs of pickles."

"Yeah, that one can probably go by the boards," Stan said. He didn't add what he privately thought—that the founder of the first settlement in the Valley, Sir Lord Quentin Trembley III ("Sir" and "Lord" were not titles, but his first and second names—his family had a proud and long history of derangement), had been a few cards short of a full deck. He it was who passed the law that a human could marry a woodpecker, and also the one that said the physical possession of a deed meant the holder owned the property—that one had got Stan in serious trouble when Li'l Gideon had once stolen the deed to the Shack.

Stan listened with an outward show of patience as Tyler went through the list of laws that were up for possible repeal. "So," he finished, "taking traffic laws and county and city ordinances altogether, that's a hundred and seven total laws I'd like to abolish. The trouble is getting the three members of the Council to agree."

Yeah, that was a problem, all right. Poolcheck was about as loony as Trembley, and Milt Befufftlefumpter, grandson of the former crazy mayor, was a rock-solid conservative when it cane to changing anything about the laws. Tad Strange would go along with the majority, or if there was none, was prone to abstain. Poolcheck and Befufftlefumpter tended to vote together.

However, Stan said, "Listen, you want, I'll campaign a little for the changes with Strange and Poolcheck. I think I can talk 'em both around. That OK?"

"Would you?" Cutebiker asked with doe eyes. "I really don't like meddling in politics."

Stan pushed up his specs and rubbed his eyes. "Tyler, you're the Mayor, for cryin' out loud. It's your job."

"I know," he said unhappily. "I like everything else about being Mayor. It's just governing that I hate."

"OK, OK," Stan said. "But quid pro quo, right? If I do something for you—and I'd do it anyways, 'cause I hate those cockamamie laws we got—but it's still like a favor. I'd like to ask something in return. And don't look so scared, it's completely legal."

"What is it?" the Mayor asked.

Stan explained, and if anything, Cutebiker looked even more despondent. "That sounds impossible," he said.

"Yeah, you thought a puma shirt and panther shirt combo were impossible, if I recall correctly," Stan said. "But Mabel made you one!"

"I still treasure it."

"Look, what I'm asking you to do is not impossible."

"But the qualifications—I know there must be laws—"

Stan swiveled his chair and took a fat book off the shelf—one he'd brought up from his own house that morning. "Let's just check the statues, shall we?" He had a blue Post-It note stuck in the book about a third of the way in. He opened to those pages. "This here is the _Laws, Ordinances, Statutes, and Regulations for the Town of Gravity Falls and the County of Roadkill, Oregon._ This is the 1999 revision, which is still the current one until you guys get your acts together and do some revising. Here, you see, this page lists the qualifications. Trust me to read it to you?"

"Oh, sure," the Mayor said. "We have one of those in the mayor's office too, somewhere."

"Good, you can backstop me," Stan said dryly. "Here we go."

* * *

_These qualifications do not supersede those of the State of Oregon but operate under their aegis._

* * *

"What's that?" Tyler asked.

"Means the state laws overrule the local ones if there's a difference. Another reason for the Council to do something about the crazy laws we got. Let me go on." With his finger on the page to mark his place, Stan continued:

* * *

_A candidate must be a citizen of United States and a resident of the State of Oregon and must have maintained residence in the State of Oregon for a minimum of three years._ "Got that knocked, been here for over thirty-five years."

_A candidate must have been a resident of the city, town, or county in which the candidate wishes to qualify for a minimum of one full year._ "Ditto, OK?"

_The candidate must either (A) be a member of the State Bar; (B) have completed four courses from an accredited institution in Criminal Justice, Jurisdiction, Civil Laws and Statutes, and the rules of evidence; or (C) signify a willingness to complete those courses within one year of assuming office._ "Don't spread this around, but I got credit for two of the courses by takin' 'em online from the Community College in Morris and took and passed two more in night school."

"Good for you!" the Mayor exclaimed.

"Yeah, thanks, it wasn't so easy, but I did it and I'll give you a copy of the transcripts. Almost done here." He resumed reading:

* * *

_If the candidate elects to take the courses identified in Section 4, he or she may not preside in a Court of Record without being admitted to the State Bar of Oregon_. "No sweat there, 'cause I'd just handle the small stuff if you needed me to. I don't even have to do that much if you don't want me to. You know why I want this."

"I think I do," said Cutebiker. He screwed up his face in an effort of intense thought. "Well—that's an appointive office in this county, so it could be done. Right now we just have two, one City, one County. I could appoint you for the County-at-large. You'd have to maintain an office. Doesn't have to be in the courthouse. A room of your house would do, or even this office. You just need a mailing address and a telephone number."

"I'll deal with that. What's your catch?"

"Um, there's no salary attached."

"Not a problem. I'll serve pro bono."

"Uh . . . OK." With a pleading look, Cutebiker said, "Poolcheck and Strange are here at the party. If you can talk them both into backing the repeal of those annoying old laws today, I'll appoint you tomorrow. Deal?"

"Deal," Stan said. "I like those odds."

* * *

He tackled Poolcheck first, casually mentioning the horrible traffic laws in the county. Poolcheck scowled. "I don't think we should change anything if it's working."

Stan nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, I know, right? I'm down with that, but these laws _ain't_ working. Did you drive here?"

"Sure I did," Poolcheck said, pointing toward the Shack parking lot. "I've got my license and—"

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna check your car for skyrockets," Stan told him. "If you don't have a good supply, I'm gonna make a citizen's arrest."

Poolcheck turned scarlet. "What? Why?"

"'Cause it's the law—goes back to 1912, when the first automobile came into the Valley. Haven't you read the laws?"

Poolcheck looked as humiliated as a man caught peeing in a swimming pool. "Well—I—I just assumed—"

"Here ya go," Stan said, holding out a photocopied sheet of paper. "Roadkill County Laws Concerning the Operation of Motorized Vehicles on Public Streets, Roads, Lanes, Bridges, and Other Thoroughfares. See? "Upon approaching any crossroads, the operator of a motorized vehicle must stop the machine, advance on foot to the intersection, cry out 'Halloa! Halloa! Halloa!' in a loud voice, and fire off one rocket. Should any pedestrian or person in a horse-drawn conveyance or riding upon a horse, ox, llama, or other beast whatsoever, object to the vehicle's passage, the operator of the motorized vehicle must wait until the other party is out of sight before repeating the process."

"But that's stupid!" Poolcheck said. "Nobody does that!"

"Stupid, I agree, but it's the law," Stan said. "Oh, wait—there's a doozy down in here about people who operate premises where people may disport themselves in water. Yeah, here it is." Stan whistled. "Look at the legal requirements! Measuring bathing attire for decency . . . segregating the genders whilst submerged or immersed . . . forbidding breast strokes or other lewd methods of swimming. You don't do any of this at the public pool! And these infractions are punishable by sentences of 363 days in the county jail. You can serve 'em concurrently, though."

Poolcheck read those and a few more for himself, his jaw dropping in dismayed amazement. "I didn't really realize," he said at last. "These laws are—well, they're crazy!"

"There's a reason for that," Stan said. "So OK, when the Mayor brings this up at the Council meeting tomorrow—I'd say you'd be smart to vote to repeal this here whole list of a hundred and seven idiot laws. Be to your interest, since if Blubs arrested you, you could do time on more'n half of them!"

Poolcheck eventually gave his promise.

Tad Strange by contrast, was a genial pushover. "Tad," Stan said, taking him aside from the picnic tables a little later that day, "Look, I know you read all these weird laws that are comin' up for votes at the Council meeting."

"Indeed I have," said Tad. "They were very boring reading. I enjoyed it a lot."

"Well, I'd say these laws are all unworkable, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, yes, I agree."

"So tomorrow I want you to promise me to vote to repeal them all."

"That sounds like an excellent idea."

"And, hey, you know my sideline as a music promoter. End of the summer, I'll give your guys Sev'ral Timez a real nice gig at Woodstick. And you can have a concession booth to sell their music rent-free. Oops, wait, I can't do that unless six laws are repealed—"

"I'll take care of it," said Mr. Strange.

"You're a good man," Stan said.

* * *

Stan didn't even try Befufftlefumpter, since he was hardly ever in the town—his business took him all over, and Stan estimated that Milt spent an average of fifty nights a year in his own house in town, the rest on the road—and also because he refused to read anything and voted by gut feeling, just like his grandpa the old Mayor, whose guts were evidently not an adequate substitute for brains.

Still, at noon the next day, Stan got a call from the Mayor's office: "Mr. Pines, could you come and see me right away?"

"Give me five minutes," Stan said, grinning, because Cutebiker's voice had a cheerful tone.

When Laverne Boodle, the dowdy but friendly secretary, showed him into the mayor's office, Tyler stood and with a grin picked up a big sheaf of papers and dramatically dropped them in the wastebasket. "Good riddance to bad laws!" he said. "Stanley, it was unanimous! When Milt realized that the other two were voting to repeal all hundred and seven, he grunted and raised his hand, too, and that was it! Now we can do some serious work to pass some sensible laws!"

"Well, congratulations!" Stan said. "So about what we discussed—"

"A deal is a deal."

Tyler reached for the intercom on his desk, but Stan stopped him: "Hang on a second, Tyler. Does this have to be public knowledge?"

Cutebiker shrugged. "There has to be a legal notice. It'll run in the _Gossiper _next week."

"Uh-huh. Can it be in real small type?"

Cutebiker smiled. "Practically invisible. You can arrange that with Toby Determined."

"Wonder what he'll want. OK, I'll take care of it. Go ahead," Stan said.

Tyler buzzed Miss Boodle, who came in with a steno pad and a pen. "Yes, sir?"

"You won't need the pad," Tyler said. "I want you to stand as witness to this and then sign and seal the certification as a Notary Public."

"To what?" she asked, confused.

Tyler handed Stan a law book—the same one Stan had shown Tyler the day before. "Hold this in your left hand and raise your right."

Stan all but stood at attention, his hand up, palm out.

"Now," Tyler said, "repeat after me—"

* * *

"I, Stanley Pines, standing upright with my left hand holding the Book of Laws for Gravity Falls and Roadkill County, as first established by former President Quentin Trembley and subsequently amended and expanded by the civil government of that town and that county, and my right hand raised to the heavens, being as far as I know of sound mind and understanding, do solemnly swear and affirm and tell you straight from the shoulder that I support the Constitution and laws of the United States and the state of Oregon, will support and defend the charter, laws, ordinances, and rules of procedure for the City of Gravity Falls and the laws, ordinances, and rules of procedure for Roadkill County, no matter how unreasonable or crazy I may privately think them, and that I will faithfully and honorably perform the duties of the office of Petty Court Justice of the Peace in and for the County of Roadkill, which I am about to assume, cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye."

* * *

Well, what did you expect? Quentin Trembley had written the oath. In the Valley, it was as binding as anything.

And Tyler signed the certification and Miss Boodle witnessed it as Notary Public, and Stan drove back home as a Justice of the Peace.

For reasons of his own.

* * *

The End


End file.
